


A Sting

by tridecaphilia



Series: In which there are Climbers [3]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Remember Wyck from the last installment?, he's the oc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5092625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridecaphilia/pseuds/tridecaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knew the Grievers could climb too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sting

**Author's Note:**

> I still have so many ideas for this, even though it's my least popular TMR fic...

Newt ran, ran flat-out for the first time in months, when he heard the scream. He’d been lucky--he’d been on top of the walls, could have fallen to his death or worse, been cut off. But he hadn’t.

“Minho!” he yelled, grabbing a vine and swinging down to hang from it. He started descending as fast as he knew how, letting go of each vine and snatching another a few feet below. “Min! Where are you?”

It hadn’t been Minho who screamed, of course. It was much, much worse than that.

_Please don’t have fallen,_ he begged.

But of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

“Minho!” he yelled again, reaching the ground and sprinting to the boy who’d screamed. “Minho! Need you here!”

Wyck was lying on the ground, shivering, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide and dilated, his shirt glued to his body from sweat. He cringed back when Newt approached, seeming not to see him.

“No!” he yelled. “You can’t have me, you can’t take me, get away!”

“MInho!” Newt yelled again.

“Right here,” the bigger boy huffed from behind him. “Jeez, you’ve got some lungs. How d’you have breath to yell like that after climbing all day?”

Newt didn’t answer, just pointed to Wyck. “He’s been stung. He fell. He can’t--”

“I got it,” Minho said, scooping up the slender boy. He ignored his cry of pain and set off at a slow jog for the Glade. Newt, without thinking about it, fell into step behind him. His legs were much shorter than Minho’s still, but he had a way of bounding along that let him keep up.

“What happened?” Newt asked Wyck. “Were you not high enough?”

Wyck moaned. “Climbed,” he whimpered. “Climbed. Too high…”

“You weren’t high _enough_ , not if you only broke your leg,” Newt said. “Why didn’t you go higher?”

Wyck moaned again and his eyes fluttered shut. Minho picked up his pace.

“You shanks are lucky I wasn’t too far off,” he muttered as he ran. “Could’ve been a whole hell of a lot worse.”

Newt shook his head. It was bad enough already.

~

“He didn’t climb,” Newt muttered as he paced outside the room in the Homestead. “Why didn’t he climb? That’s his job, he’s good at it.”

“Newt,” Minho said tiredly. “I think that’s what he meant. He did climb.”

Newt frowned at him. “I don’t--If he climbed--”

“The Grievers would’ve had to climb right along after him,” Minho said grimly. “What do you bet the shuck Creators taught them how?”

Newt’s eyes went wide with sheer panic, and he started to push past Minho before the bigger boy stopped him.

“You try and go in there, and I’m throwing you over my shoulder and taking you to Frypan to peel potatoes,” he informed Newt. The blond glared at him, but finally stepped back.

“Nothing I can do anyway,” he said. “Med-Jacks will handle it.”

“That’s right,” Minho said, slapping his shoulder gently. “Now, we need to have a little talk.”

Newt looked up at him, frowning. “About what?”

“Not here,” Minho said. “Deadheads. Let’s go.”

Once again Newt kept pace with the Runner, although walking meant he had to take two steps for every one of Minho’s. When they reached the Deadheads, Minho turned and put his hands on his hips.

“I know what you’ve been thinking,” he said. “And you better realize, if you do it, I’ll know.”

Newt frowned, looking for all the world like the picture of innocence. “What are you talking about?”

Minho jabbed a finger into his chest. “You. Looking up at the walls when they close every night. High up where the ivy doesn’t grow. You, talking about Wyck’s little fall as _not being high enough._ I’m talking about you gauging how hard it would be to kill yourself without us knowing, and I’m telling you, _I’d know_.”

Newt’s eyes went wide and he took a step back. “I…”

“I’d know,” Minho repeated. “I will know, if you ever do it. You’re too shucking good at what you do to fall. So if you think you can get one past me--don’t. I’ll know, and I’ll _never_ forgive you. Good that?”

Newt swallowed. “Good that,” he whispered.

In the distance, Wyck screamed.

 


End file.
